


The Same Coin

by anythingbutblue



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/pseuds/anythingbutblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya is sent back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Coin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



A woman walks the halls of Winterfell. She watches.

A woman is barely more than a girl and barely more than a ghost, haunting the cold corridors. She is nobody. She is unremarkable: a face in a crowd, a figure in a doorway, a servant with a bucket. Her steps are even, light. Once she danced, fluid as water, and once she hid in shadows, sneaking behind cats. Once she nestled within this place and called it home. Arya of House Stark was a daughter, a sister.

For three days the young woman bides her time, tasked to scrub and clean, her calloused hands once again put to use. This face is freckled, the nose upturned, a thin scar hooked over the edge of her chin. This is certainly a test. Is it enough that she touches Winterfell's wounded walls with detachment? She can still imagine her feet running over these floors, her laughter spilling through open doors. No one can look at her now and think of little Arya climbing trees or complaining about her miserable attempts at sewing.

Three days of subtle exploration. Winterfell is is no longer home, no matter how well she knows it. It doesn't smell the same; it makes her think of ash and crying in the dark. The family is gone.

*

On day four she catches a glimpse of familiar red hair. In the dim light it looks darker than she remembers, but a memory still snags in her mind: tugging that hair, pulling it hard, delighting in the very undignified and unladylike squeal Sansa lets out. For a moment she wants to laugh and she knows that if she lets herself, that laugh will be a little wild despite its hush. The disbelief that she's actually _here_ needs little excuse to want to burst out of her. A laugh would feel good, a crack in a facade. She can't afford it.

The face beneath the gathered hair is just as familiar. Older, yes, more womanly, and her face is prettier, despite the hint of sleeplessness around the eyes. It truly is her and not an impostor, not a glorified rumor. Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, thought to be the lone survivor of that noble family. After all she's been through she wouldn't believe it without seeing it for herself.

Arya Stark didn't always like her sister, but both the bitter and the sweet tangle irrevocably in her memories. A family's roots run deep. 

*

Lady Sansa smiles at people. The smile may be slow, but it's willing, genuine. The woman who watches in the halls of Winterfell knows what a false smile looks like, knows when one hides a lie. The first time Sansa's smile is aimed in her direction her chest tenses uncomfortably, doubt creeping in. Would someone she once knew so well see through her own lie better than most? Her brain knows that shouldn't be the case, but a sliver of doubt lodges in her heart all the same. For much of her life she wasn't very good at telling falsehoods. Things have changed.

Every brief encounter she has with Sansa grips her heart as though it could be choked; the people she works with call the Lady of Winterfell kind, beautiful. Winter may rage, but they speak of her with hope in their voices.

 _Who am I_ , Arya repeats to herself, _I'm no one._ She is a shadow, a stranger. She is no more Arya Stark than she was Cat of the Canals. She is no more Arya Stark than she is the Targaryen across the sea.

*

Eddard and Catelyn once slept in the chamber Sansa now uses. Where are their bones now, nobody wonders. The room maintains a slight chill even at the best of times, and now it smells of something almost floral. An oil, she thinks, probably from a place yet untouched by the worst of winter, untouched by the war five would-be kings once waged, untouched by the worst rumors of what has crept south from beyond the Wall. It smells sweet but not cloyingly so, as she might have expected from the Sansa of years gone by. The book by the bed is a history written by an author whose name she doesn't recognize. Once they both would have found it dry, Sansa only snagged by hints of pining and romance.

Sansa Stark may be more recognizable than she is these days, but even Sansa is not who she was. How long did it take for the Lannister goodwill to turn sour? Who did she befriend? What lies has she been told and which of those did she unravel? Where did life take her between King's Landing and the return to Winterfell?

What is the last memory she has of their mother? Of Robb? Does she know anything of Bran and Rickon? Does she know what they say of Jon Snow?

The ghost of Arya Stark paces the room, counting each step from door to window, from wall to wall, from corner to corner. She studies where the darkest shadows of the room fall and learns how to swing the door open in such a way that its creak is nearly soundless. She knew this room once. She knows it better now.

*

Tonight a contract could be fulfilled, a silent promise kept. The two guards on tower watch slump in chairs on the lowest level, the victims of a sleeping draught; it wouldn't do to alert the outside world before she's ready. She is able to enter Sansa's chamber with what feels like minimal effort now, but routes were explored, patrols were memorized, guard names and faces learned, patterns noted, steps counted. The door makes minimal noise for her as she opens it, one hand ready near her blade, and her feet are even more quiet on the floor as she walks toward the bed. She feels as though she blends with shadow.

Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the dimness of the room, but Sansa is there, half-curled on her side. Her hair is loose and long, rippling over her pillows. Her mouth is slightly parted, but her breathing...

Her breathing doesn't seem deep enough. She draws her blade with speed, the soft hiss of the metal as it leaves its sheath merely a whisper in the room. Even so, Sansa opens her eyes, scrambling to sit up. The hand that had been tucked beneath a pillow reveals a small dagger, its dark hilt gripped tightly.

"I know you," Sansa breathes, and for a second the ghost of Arya Stark feels far more tangible. "I recognize your face. Sara, was it? You must have taken care of my guards already."

"They weren't dead when I left them." The words sound a bit stubborn as they roll off her tongue. She regrets speaking.

Surprise flickers over Sansa's features, but whether it is surprise over the answer given or surprise over her inaction is a mystery. She holds her dagger up between them. "What do you want?"

"Have you ever used that before?"

Again, Sansa's eyes widen. "Does it matter? I will defend myself if I must."

There is a part of Arya that wants to laugh and laugh, not even unkindly. Perhaps a bit admiringly. Defending _herself_ would never have made the most romantic story for Sansa when they were younger. For a few heartbeats she feels as though her chest could burst: her sister, her home, her memories that catch like webs in the crevices between stones. She slowly lowers her blade, and mustering all the determination she has she passes her free hand over her face, giving herself the momentary feeling of a breeze dancing over her skin. She barely knows what she looks like when she is done, but she remembers how she _used_ to look.

A horrified amazement washes over Sansa's features. "Arya?"

Arya knows from experience that it's difficult to believe one's eyes at first. She feels herself smile. "I haven't answered to that in a long time." 

The North remembers all too well.


End file.
